It Was, Of Course, the Sunset's Fault
by jenelin
Summary: Crowley tries to drive himself mad after kissing Aziraphale in the street. Not that it was his fault, of course. Fluffy and more than vaguely slashy.


**_It Was, Of Course, the Sunset's Fault_**

**by jenelin**

_Author's note: Crowley and Aziraphale...not mine. The confusion I dumped poor Crowley into and any damn sunsets mentioned...mine. This was the result of not wanting to work on my Art History project, so it seems that Art History in general is acting as my _Good Omens_ muse. This is slashy, and you can't imagine that it's not. I like feedback even more than my best o' Queen CD._

~~~~~~~~~~oOo~~~~~~~~~~

Crowley had never meant for it to go as far as it did. But when you know someone for so long, and when someone is so good and light, and when someone just begs for it with their irritating smiles and unnerving friendliness... 

He had fought it for years, and he thought he had won. 

But that night the cool air had done strange things to his head, and the sunset... 

Damn sunsets that made you act as you never intended to. Crowley was sure Someone was having a big laugh about that one. Evil was evil, but sunsets could make anyone act a little funny. 

Aziraphale had been so damn calm about it. As if it was not at all out of the ordinary for Crowley to kiss him. Forcefully. In the middle of the street. "Well. How interesting. I'm dying for a cup of tea, how about you?" 

And Crowley had quickly declined and run away. 

He tried to tell himself that it was nothing. Kisses were meaningless. But he knew this was something. And no matter how Aziraphale handled it, Crowley knew that he would never be able to ignore it. He would remember, he would regret. 

He would want to do it again. 

How could Aziraphale be so calm about it? 

Crowley was torn, confused, scared. He was not supposed to be scared. But he had let himself lose control. He was supposed to be able to keep his head. 

He knew it was wrong. Everything was wrong. It should have been right. It was right for demons to tempt, to stain. But not Aziraphale. He had never meant to do anything to Aziraphale. He was too good, too clean. Deep down, that was why Crowley liked him. Being around Aziraphale almost made him remember being in the Light. 

Blessed, damned, stupid sunset. 

He had actually run away. Torn down the street as if all the Dukes in Hell were chasing him, leaving Aziraphale standing there. He had not looked behind him, had not wanted to see Aziraphale fading into the distance, but he could imagine. Aziraphale would just stand there and watch him, and then he would go back to his shop and make a cup of his bloody tea and go on with his bloody stupid life and try to forget poor Crowley, who had obviously gone crazy. 

Poor Crowley, who was feeling emotions demons were not supposed to possess. Who thought he might like to cry, even though he never had. Young girls in soppy movies cried, but not demons. Still, his head hurt and his chest hurt, and if he did not do something he would probably burst into a thousand pieces and never come together again. 

But not in public. He would go back to his flat if he had to disgrace himself. Yell at the plants a little, turn on the telly, and if he still felt angry and stupid and soppy, he would figure out how to cry and have a good bawl of it. And preferably never see Aziraphale again, at least if it meant feeling angry and stupid and soppy all the time. 

Aziraphale was sitting on his couch when he returned home. "Er..." he said, his voice unsure. "Do you want to talk about it?" 

Crowley froze as his mind tried to comprehend what was happening. The first thing his mind told him was that Aziraphale was not behaving how Crowley expected him to, namely, he was not sipping bloody tea in his bloody shop. Secondly, Aziraphale seemed nervous, which meant that he was either scared of what Crowley might do to him, in which case he would probably not be sitting on Crowley's couch, or that he was perhaps feeling confused and strange too. Third, Aziraphale had asked him a question, and Crowley had not answered it. Did he want to talk about it? Did he want to say everything, sort everything out, try to untangle the confusion of his mind? Did he want to even think about it? "No," answered Crowley. 

"Well," said Aziraphale. "I didn't think you would." 

"Maybe in a few decades." Crowley rubbed his pounding temples and took off his sunglasses, hoping that would make the pain stop. It did not work. His head ached and swirled, and his stomach was in knots. He again thought that crying would feel good, whatever it felt like, and immediately told himself that he would do no such thing. He would not go all soppy on Aziraphale. He would tell the angel to go home, and then he would go to bed and in the morning tell himself that it was all just a bad dream. A bad, wonderful, stupid dream. 

It had been a good kiss. 

Crowley opened his mouth to talk, but could say nothing because Aziraphale chose that moment to stand up and come closer and smile and appear far too enticing for his own good. Didn't he know what Crowley wanted to do? 

The sun had long since set. He was not supposed to be feeling like this anymore. If not the sunset, perhaps the moonlight. 

It was all the fault of the fucking moonlight, slipping in through an open window. 

"It's quite all right," Aziraphale was saying. "What happened, I mean. Er...it was...quite...well." He was inching steadily closer. "But we can talk about it later. Just...it's all right." And the angel opened his arms. 

Crowley did not move. He would not lose it, he would retain his composure. His reason and his sanity had obviously left, but he could keep his composure. It was not hard. Easy, really. Just stand there, unmoving, not looking at Aziraphale. If he ignored him, maybe he would go away. 

Aziraphale stepped nearer and put his arms around Crowley. The demon bit his lip, trying to keep his resolve, but it was a bit hard with Aziraphale so close, whispering vaguely comforting things in his ear. He would not break, he would not... 

Aziraphale's lips briefly brushed his forehead, soft, light, feathery. 

Bloody fucking heaven and praise be to all the saints. 

Crowley let go and collapsed on Aziraphale's shoulder, no longer caring whether it was right or wrong, no longer caring if he had gone mad, no longer caring if he understood what he was feeling. Just then, it was good to be close to the Light, to be close to Aziraphale, to release, to relax. 

In the end, Crowley did cry a little, but Aziraphale thought it impolite to mention it.   
  
  



End file.
